


I’d Be Friends with Your Torso (if that's all that was left)

by buttercups3



Series: War Stories [1]
Category: Revolution (TV)
Genre: Gen, Iraq days, LJ 60 prompts in 60 days, Language, Militia days, prompt: adrenaline
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-09-13
Updated: 2013-09-13
Packaged: 2017-12-26 10:00:19
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,367
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/964637
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/buttercups3/pseuds/buttercups3
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Miles and Bass have a bond that can transcend catastrophic personal loss and epically stinky feet. They laugh in the face of fair-weather friends - in fact, they haven't even seen fair weather since the 5th grade. Now that's love.</p>
            </blockquote>





	I’d Be Friends with Your Torso (if that's all that was left)

**Author's Note:**

> Miles and Bass friendship series revolving around war experiences. Could be Miloe - I'm not an exclusive lover.

“Fuck, fuck!” – _plunk_ , _plunk_ come the boots - Miles’ profane jettison. “Fuck!” One more just for good measure, though there’s less spunk in it now. Miles has flung himself on his cot in their tent and begins unbuttoning his coat to reveal sweat stains over his heart, benign war paint, at least.

Despite Miles’ passing concern that the troops probably wager on whether or not he and Bass screw in here, they’ve always bunked together in the field – and they’re not about to stop now just because they’re generals and could have their own quarters. Pathetic as it sounds, Miles finds it hard to sleep on campaign without the dulcet whistle of Bass’ snoring. It’s more comforting than tits, and damned if Miles can figure out why.

Miles is so fucking dirty he’s probably getting lice on his pillow, but he’s too spent to move now that he’s achieved horizontal. He scratches behind his left ear. Hell, he’d better not have lice. Damned new recruits and their defective hygiene. Just being near them makes his skin crawl.

Bass wrinkles his nose just to be sure Miles knows his feet reek of a donkey’s ass and observes as Miles reclines like an alarmingly filthy Cleopatra. Bastard should be fed grapes by slaves, he looks so rapturously snoozy all of a sudden. This image amuses Bass enough that he feels compelled to throw a pebble from the canvas floor at Miles’ face, transmogrifying it into a grape in his mind’s eye.

Miles grumbles, “Shit skid,” but nimbly catches the rock. His reflexes have always been one step below superhero. That’s why Bass used to hate playing video games against him - much preferred being on the same team.

Bass lies on his own cot, hands behind his head and offers ponderously (magnanimously, he thinks), “Well, you can’t win them all, General. At least it was an orderly retreat. Now if you hadn’t put me off on some fool’s errand with the cavalry –”

“Recon’s not a fool’s errand –”

“We should call them the dragoons!” Bass enthusiastically roars his epiphany. He has no filter with his best friend – doesn’t even try. “Yeah, like the fucking days of George Washington. How cool would that be?”

“We just lost 18 men and retreated six miles. You wanna joke about dragoons? Fuck is wrong with you, Bass?”

Enter Grumpy Miles, and he’s already testing Bass’ patience. “When you put it like that it sounds like you were shit. But it was nearly a tactical win; their casualties are, what, at least 50? You had the advantage until they fell back to the bluffs, and once they entrenched up there what choice did you have? You were right to pull back.”

“You say it was right, because I did it, Bass. You don’t fucking…” Miles allows his voice to fade. Is he really going to call Bass out on his constant deference to Miles’ leadership? Does Miles even _want_ Bass’ input on strategy? Sure he does…that is, when he does.

Bass startles his greasy blonde curls with a shove, temporarily hurt by Miles' implication. But his best friend is a sore loser, he tells himself. He’s just being his usual dick self – no need to take it personally.

Miles goes on, “Only thing we did right was when Kip showed up with those four artillery pieces. Hell, our fucking infantry: I’ve never seen more chicken shits in one spot in my life.” Miles pulls a piece of fluff off his lip and scowls at Bass’s dimpled-grinning face. What the fuck does he have to be so happy about?

Bass chuckles, “Speaking of George Washington, I heard you used your riding crop to whip the officers when they turned tail to run after their men.”

“Well, they were cowards!”

“They’re green, Miles! All of them! We made a handful officers, because someone has to pass orders down the line. For fuck’s sake. Of course they broke at the first sound of gunfire – we’ve barely had a day to train them.” The dam occluding Bass’ exasperation with Miles inexplicably crumbles; his smile dissolves. “Goddammit, your feet smell like asshole! Pay a launderer for Christ’s sake before I make you get your own tent!” Bass suddenly wants to throw something larger than a pebble at Miles’ mug.

Miles’ feet have always smelled like shit, but Bass only brings it up when he’s pissy, so Miles must have pushed Bass’ buttons somehow. Bass didn’t used to be this volatile until a drunk driver took out his family and a larger chunk of Bass' sanity than Miles cares to admit. But Miles puts up with it, because Bass had long done the same with Miles' social ineptitude and mopeyness.

“Oh, stuff a cock in it,” is Miles’ delayed retort. He's stubborn enough that he rolls his face onto his hands to block out the sight of Bass, thereby (hopefully) terminating this conversation now that it’s taken a turn for the prickly.

Bass shakes his head. Miles is so fucking immature, it kind of amazes Bass after all these years. “Well what should we do now?” he tries, since Miles has become a fucking ostrich.

“Really you have no ideas, Bass?” Miles pries his face out to rest sideways on his forearm.

Bass gets defensive before he can stop himself: “I just want to know what you think!”

“We stop and train the troops, fucktard. Teach them moral courage, discipline. Von Steuben their asses.”

“You know what, Miles? It’s really inappropriate to use retard as an insult. You should know better given your extraordinarily low IQ. What’d you score on that test again?”

“Seriously, still bringing that up?”

“How could I not? It’s like someone cryo-ed your brain before you took it. You could barely write your name.”

“I freeze on tests; you know that.”

“Miles, it’s time to finally admit you have the intelligence of a slug. I love you, I really do, but it’s practically charity work being your friend.”

Miles glowers and is about to bury his face again (mainly because he’s out of comebacks), when Bass muses:

“Ah, green troops shitting themselves in battle. Kinda reminds you of our first time, no?”

“How fucking romantic.”

“Seriously, it’s not like we were awesome on our first tour.”

“Weren’t cowards either.”

“No, but just the same, I wouldn’t exactly tell those early stories to someone I was trying to lay. You?”

Miles shakes his head, half because he doesn’t want to think about their first tour in Iraq and half because Bass is right, of course. A lot of these Militia kids are younger than he and Bass were when they enlisted in the Marines. There’s a steep learning curve in war. And frankly, Miles’ troops’ failure is _his_ failure. He can only get so mad at them when the buck stops here.

* * *

Desert sun high, the Marines low in their dusty trench. Mouths dry as alcoholics, breath rancid as spoiled dog food. They’ve been here for the first of what will prove to be forty-three hours in sum. How the fuck did anyone survive the sheer boredom of World War I? Bass has his boot on Miles’s thigh, while Miles attempts to lace it as tight as possible, all the while trying to disguise the fact that his hands are still trembling from the morning’s fray.

“Gay,” Bass comments, and Miles starts at the initial impression that Bass means Miles’ obvious nerves. In a beat, he realizes it’s the fact that he's got his buddy's combat boot an inch from his balls.

“Naw, Grassier would never fuck you,” Miles tries for a grin and delivers a grimace. Out of the corner of his eye, he sees Sgt. Grassier roll his eyes.

“Ah certainly don’t fuck pansies, and you boys were running pretty damn fast away from the frunt line,” comes the slow Cajun drawl. 

Don’t ask, don’t tell and all that, but somehow they all know about Grassier (that’s Grass-i-ay, and don’t you dare fuck with his French-ass name). Being the gay Marine in their unit only makes the sergeant the toughest motherfucker in the land. He's twice as big as Bass, and Bass isn’t exactly a wisp.

Bass is stung a little by the thought that Grassier might be disappointed in his combat performance, though he knows he was shit. You don’t embarrass your sergeant without paying for it in burpees later.

Bass tries to flex his swollen ankle, but Miles has swaddled it in a booty death grip. It ain't moving. “We were following orders to fall back – not running from fire,” Bass whines. Sounds more pathetic aloud than it did in his head.

Grassier lights up a cigarette and scoffs, “Yeah, and you two were so eager to follow o’dors, you tripped on each other doin’ it.”

“I didn’t trip on him – just turned my ankle in the sand,” Bass pouts. 

Miles is hanging his head in sullen silence.

It’s so terrifically hot that Bass wonders if the action they saw earlier was actually all a desert mirage. They’ve seen those, by the way – false oases in the sand. That cartoon shit is real. Fuck, he’s bored – never cared for silence – so all of a sudden he’s expounding upon his feelings at length. Miles and Grassier both fix him with withering stares.

“Shit. I’m prepared to die but not to get my legs or arms shot off.” Their unit saw a Marine with blown legs get pulled out by medics today – not one of theirs, but still. It gave you pause. “Or fucking both. What if I go home a torso, like ‘Boxing Helena’? I mean, at least my abs are my best feature. And I’d still have my dick.”

Fucking Bass. Miles is a touch embarrassed – wishes he could snap the leash. Strange how when Bass messes up, it might as well be Miles. But it wasn’t Bass who fucked up in the field earlier – it was Miles. Miles had hesitated for one moment under orders and gotten himself pinned down behind a Humvee. The firing around him was so intense he’d almost pissed himself thinking he was going to die. It was like his brain malfunctioned, and even though some in his unit kept calling to him – _We’ll cover you_ – he couldn’t move a muscle. Not until Bass exposed himself to the fire to come back for him. The appearance of Bass at Miles’ side inspired in him a burst of adrenaline, and they leapt hastily for cover. That’s when Bass had come down wrong on the ankle. Jumpstarting Miles’ panicked ass.

Grassier should be genuinely chewing out Miles; Miles can’t figure out why this hasn’t happened. He fucking deserves it – a disgrace to the Marines.

To Bass the incident was less about Miles’ close call – after all, it only took one second for Bass to sense Miles' absence and look back to see him marooned in a sea of angry fire. Bass assumed his friend just got cut off from the pack in the chaos. Bass is, however, ashamed that it took him two whole minutes to get up the nerve to go after Miles. Then, in his mad scramble toward safety, he twisted his fucking ankle. A coward and a lummox. In contrast, while Miles may look slightly disproportionate at rest with his gangly arms and legs, when fighting, he is practically a ballet dancer.

Night falls on their sorry asses, and it’s still in the mid-80s, but hey, it’s not 113 degrees anymore, so that’s something. Bass’ dusty LPC still rests on Miles’ leg, but Miles doesn’t even think about moving it. If Bass is going to walk out of this hole, he needs to reduce the damn swelling. It’s Miles’ fault Bass hurt himself in the first place. Miles hears that familiar whistle – Bass is asleep – but he senses Grassier is just hiding under his helmet.

Compelled by lingering humiliation, Miles mumbles, “Grassier.”

“Shit, Matheson. Don’ think I’ve ever hurd you speak on your own bu’fore.” 

“About earlier…” Miles waits an inordinately long time, as if he hopes Grassier will just fill in the blanks, but he doesn’t. “Sorry,” is all Miles finishes.

Grassier shrugs, “So you froze for a second. Put your friend in danger. We all lurn da hard way in combat. Just make _sure_ you lurn.”

“You have people who care about you…back home?” Miles asks suddenly.

Grassier eyes him now, sweeping off the helmet and running stumpy fingers over his cropped chestnut hair. “You really are full uh talk when your friend’s sacked out. Yeah, ah got some'un. You?”

“Nah. Parents gone, my brother’s, well, not interested. Was engaged, but she bugged out on me during Basic. Didn’t want to play the odds of me not coming back.” 

Grassier nods at the sleeping Bass. “Hence your twin. Why’d you want to be a Marine?”

“Be good at something I guess. Never been good at anything in my life.”

“Well yur a good shot with da best training in the world.” Grassier's shrugs seems to suggest he thinks Miles chose wisely. His faith comforts Miles ever so slightly.

They’re forced out of their hole several days later by an enemy mortar team. Of course, whoever the poor twit is who was abandoned to drop the round in the barrel must be toast – U.S. artillery is now pounding the shit out of the origin site. Mortar teams are targeted and demolished so quickly, it's somehow even more of a fuck you that they even go through with it - like they die giving you the finger. The Marines are running like hell again – Bass wobbling on that ankle. 

Bass is doing his best not to show discomfort – he doesn’t want to be plucked up by medics. At all costs, he must not leave Miles’ side. They’d promised each other - made a vow more fucking serious than anything Miles could have promised Emma had they gone through with their stupid wedding. There’s Miles gamboling in front of Bass again. If your ears weren't bleeding from explosions, and Miles wasn’t a cammie cameleon - one with the sand - you’d think he was an acrobat or a goat - something graceful as hell. Miles suddenly darts to the side, catching Bass off guard. What the fuck is he on now? Bass doesn’t have it in him to help Miles escape another Humvee pin down. But he follows blindly anyway, like there’s a string binding him to Miles’ back.

Miles falls to his knees beside Grassier, whose left leg has been blasted to ribbons. Blood looks so innocuous when you see a combat wound up close for the first time. Grassier’s pants are obscuring the meaty bits, and the fresh scarlet is much more like ketchup than Miles would have anticipated. He blinks at Grassier a few times, who moans and curses, and feels Bass plop down at his side. Miles glances briefly at Bass (who’s so incognito in his helmet and shades he could be any Marine if it weren’t for the familiar, slightly forward way he holds his head) and immediately hefts Grassier onto his back, bending at the knees to keep from toppling over. Grassier has the mass of a horse, and Miles is instantly staggering. They’re all going to get blown to hell now. Bass tries to cover them, since they’ve gotten separated from their unit.

They make it over a bank of sand, and Grassier begs to be put down.

“Just want one last smoke.”

 _Jesus, it’s that bad?_ Miles wonders, as he allows the wounded Marine to roll off him. It only takes one look to confirm that it is. The green eyes are filmy and fading. 

Bass extracts the sergeant’s cigarettes, and Miles lights one for Grassier. 

While they prepare their noncom's chosen last rites, he issues orders like he’s not bleeding out. “Now you two leave me, you hear? Ahm too heavy to carry as a corpse.”

“Forget it.” 

“No way.”

Miles and Bass object over one another. “We’re taking you with us, dead or alive,” Bass finishes.

Grassier shakes his head at them like they’re dull as turtles, takes a puff on the cigarette Miles holds to his cracked lips, and expires right then and there.

Bass and Miles stare at each other through their sunglasses, both wondering what the other is thinking. Finally Bass suggests, “We should take off his tags, just in case.”

Miles nods. “Gimme your blouse, Bass.” If they hadn’t been friends for an eternity, Miles might find it strange that Bass disrobes for him on command, but perhaps Bass is encouraged by the fact that Miles is already shedding his own blouse. He ties their sleeves together, and they heft Grassier’s body onto the makeshift litter.

They’re straining under the heat and the weight, but Bass catches sight of the other Marines in their unit and nods for Miles (who is walking backwards) to head southeast.

Just to pass the time, Bass asks, “Would you be friends with my torso if that's all that was left?”

“Cut it out with the torso thing. It’s morbid as hell,” Miles grumbles irritably.

“But would you?” Bass presses.

“ _Yes_ , I’d be friends with your fucking torso.”

“And would you carry my body back to base in your blouse like Grassier?”

“Bass, fuck. Yes. I’d carry your body across the Atlantic and the continental United States to deposit it personally at Gail’s door. You know I would. But you’re not going to fucking die. I can’t do this without you.” Miles is surprised at how true this is even though he’d initially enlisted without knowing Bass would join him.

“Sweet of you to say,” Bass returns with an air of triumph. “Now watch it – you’re about to bump into Boomer.”

Bass and Miles allow the dead man to thump to the sand, as Boomer’s mouth falls open in horror. Of course Bass is shaken by Grassier’s death, and he'll grieve in time. But right now all he can think is: _Thank God that’s not Miles. Or me._ They just need to make it out of this shit-dump country alive. Who thought enlisting was a good idea again? Oh, right, Miles.

* * *

Bass has just about convinced his weary ass to emerge from his cot and blow out the candles in their shared tent, when Miles croaks:

“Bass…how'd we end up caught in a lifetime of war?”

“Um, because you got us into it… _twice_.” Just the thought of this redoubles Bass’ exhaustion, and now he’s definitely making Stink-Foot Miles get up instead of him. 

“Must be something really wrong with me if that’s what I want out of life.”

“I don’t think you _want_ it, Miles,” Bass sighs. “I just think when you see injustice – even just _know_ it’s out there – you can’t stop yourself. It’s kind of cute. It’s also kind of egotistical. But…I dig it about you, or I wouldn’t come along for the ride. But listen, you can’t expect everyone to be like you, driven by some higher purpose to be brave or honorable. You’ve just gotta make the new troops believe in _you_.”

“And how do I do that?” 

“Come on, Miles. All that comes naturally to you. I don’t know how you do it, but you do. Now stop being a baby, and put out the lights. Do you think you could reposition your cot so your feet are outside the flap? I’m afraid we’ll die in here. It’s like your feet are farting. Seriously.”

Bass has his eyes closed now, so he doesn’t see it coming: Miles hurtles himself feet-first onto Bass, making sure the dirty socks infiltrate his lips and nostrils.

“Arrrgggg!” Bass objects, thrashing violently.

“Oh, I’m sorry, didn’t you call for them? They just want to be friends!”

Miles has given in completely to a fit of silent laughter, which provides Bass with the opportunity to catapult his friend to the floor. Miles lies there for ages, holding his belly and shaking.

Finally, Bass leans over the edge of the cot and suggests, “I think we’ve found a cure for cowardice. Forget the firing squad – your socks are the new Militia death penalty.”


End file.
